by Ann Benson
He said, “Sorry, luv. I’m not thinking quite straight.” Then with a pointed stare, he added, “You took me a little by surprise with all this.”
He should be screaming at her. He was being unbelievably kind about their theft of his device. So with true contrition in her heart, Janie said, “Michael, I’m sorry, I know now that this was—”
“Forget it,” he said abruptly. “I probably would’ve done the same in your shoes. Now—this message—what was the nickname again? I’ll see if I can dig up anything on it.”
“Wargirl,” Janie said with relief, “just like it sounds.”
When she stepped through the door into the reception area of Tom’s law firm later that afternoon, the stress lines in her forehead were so visible that Tom’s secretary asked Janie if she was feeling all right. She answered yes, not really meaning it, and offered a limp explanation.
“I didn’t sleep too well last night, that’s all.”
And because she knew the basics of Janie’s legal circumstances, the woman nodded sympathetically and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. This must be a very difficult time for you. But things will be better soon, I’m sure of it. Mr. Macalester is working very hard on your case.”
Cases, Janie thought to herself, and it looks like there might be another. “I know he is. I have complete faith in him. Listen, I don’t have an appointment, but I don’t need more than a couple of minutes. I gave Tom something to hold in the safe for me. I just wanted to get it back if I could, please.”
“Why don’t you have a seat—let me just check and see what he’s up to.”
She was as wired as a lioness, and she would rather have paced around to work some of the energy off, but Janie did as she was told and sat. The overstuffed chair was so comfortable and welcoming that when Tom came out of his office to greet her a few minutes later, she was already close to dozing. He roused her with a gentle touch on the arm.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Janie came awake quickly and sat up. She rubbed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair. “Whoa. I guess I should’ve expected that to happen.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled warmly and patted her on the shoulder. “Even Superwoman needs to sleep every now and then. Monica said you wanted to get your things out of the safe.”
“Right. I did. Not things, though. Just thing. I put two items in that envelope. I’d like to leave one of them here. But I’ll probably be back for it pretty soon. I have to make some arrangements first.”
“That’s fine. Come on back to the inner sanctum.”
Janie rose up and followed Tom through the quietly decorated office. She’d been there so many times before that it was as familiar to her as her own workplace, and far more welcoming. The private space in which he practiced his profession was as spare as Tom himself—nothing extraneous, nothing without meaning or function. The furnishings were all expensive and carefully chosen, but unshowy, evidence of the success of Tom’s quiet but often brilliant work on behalf of his clients.
He went directly to a wood cabinet behind his desk and opened it with an ornate brass key. Janie saw a gray metal safe built into the cabinet’s wood framework.
“Turn around,” he told her, “or someone might torture you for the combination.”
“Hey, if it would wake me up …”
He laughed and pressed a series of buttons on the panel, and the outer door popped open. He did the same on the inner door.
“That must be quite a safe,” Janie said, listening, her back still turned. “What do you have in there, top secrets?”
“Only yours,” he said. “None of my other clients are anywhere near as interesting as you.” He poked around inside the safe and pulled out the envelope she’d given him, then turned around and handed it to her. “I can get you a cup of coffee, if you want. Maybe it would perk you up.”
As if she hadn’t heard him, she took the envelope with two hands, holding it in front of her while she felt the contents with her fingers. She set the envelope on her lap, undid the clasp, and carefully withdrew the journal. She opened the back cover of the old book with great reverence. Tom watched, fascinated, as she withdrew a twenty-first-century data disk from inside the leaves of the fourteenth-century journal.
“Should I be guessing which one of those things you’re going to take with you?”
“The disk,” she told him, “but only long enough to make a copy of it. Then I’m going to bring it back. The journal I’m going to leave here, maybe for a few more days, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. And I can probably copy that disk right now if you want. Then you can take the copy with you and put the original back in the safe.”
In her frazzled state, it hadn’t even occurred to her to ask for such a simple thing. “That would be great—it would save me some trouble.”
Tom tapped the intercom button. His secretary appeared in the doorway a few moments later. “Take this disk, please, and make us a copy, would you?”
“Of course.”
That settled, he offered the coffee again.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just take the disk and go. I’m so tired I can barely think straight. It’s been a crazy day.”
“Night, you mean.”
“No, I meant day—some things happened today.…”
Her hesitation prompted Tom to say, “Anything you want to talk about?”
“Yeah. Some things I’m going to need to talk to you about. But not right now. I have to let it all settle in first. Tomorrow, maybe.”
Monica came back with two disks. Janie put one in the envelope, the other in her purse, then handed the envelope to Tom, who secured it in the safe again.
“Okay,” she said, “That’s that, I guess. I think I’d better go home now, before I collapse. I haven’t exactly been looking forward to it, but I think I’d better.” She made a dark little chuckle. “After all, I do live there, I suppose.”
“I’ll drive you. I’m through for the day anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I am. I’m ready to get out of here. I need some quiet to concentrate, and I can do that in my home office better than here.”
“You’re too good to me, Tom. Thanks. I’m afraid I’d fall asleep on the bus.”
“Nope. Not gonna let that happen.”
It didn’t feel like home when she got there. It felt spoiled and violated, corrupted even. Janie knew the feeling would pass in time, but at the moment time was not passing quickly enough. She opened the door with a key and went inside cautiously with Tom close behind.
She was greeted by the remains of the mess, but it wasn’t too terrible; much of what had been overturned or tossed around had been righted and repositioned by the well-meaning cops Michael had brought with him in the middle of the night. To bring it back to her own standard, Janie knew, would require some time alone with buckets and brushes and scrubbers. And Maria Callas. Hey, maybe an exorcist …
And just down the hall, there was a bed, her bed, with clean, cool sheets and fluffy pillows and a silk-covered down comforter.
She picked up the phone, and the dial tone told her that the phone company had kept its promise. She looked around, decided it was all too much to contemplate, and turned toward Tom with a discouraged look on her face. “You know what? I’m just going to bed. I can’t even think of doing anything else right now.”
He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down. “I’ll stay till you’re asleep.”
“Do you have the time? What about that work?”
“I’ve got my briefcase in the car. So it’s fine.”
“You just keep saving my life all the time. I’m always wondering what I did to deserve it.” She yawned and rubbed her forehead. “I’d offer to make you something to eat but I don’t think I’d do too well.”
“Forget it. I’m not hungry right now. I’ll get something later, after I leave.”
“Okay. Well, good night, I guess.�
� And after the briefest hesitation, she turned and headed down the hallway.
“Janie …”
“What?”
There was a moment of silence, then Tom said, “Leave the door open. So I can look in on you. That way I’ll know when to go.”
Tom was moments from leaving when the phone began to ring. Though it was not his own, the universal urge to answer overtook him. He picked it up before the second ring.
“Dr. Crowe’s residence,” he said tentatively.
There was a brief pause, and then the surprised voice of a man came over the line. “Who is this?”
“This is Dr. Crowe’s attorney.”
“Tom?”
“Yes …”
“This is Bruce.”
“Oh. Hello.”
Another brief pause. “Is Janie there?”
“She is. But she’s asleep.”
Bruce seemed to struggle for words momentarily. “It’s—what—seven o’clock there? Or did I figure it wrong?”
“No, you figured right. Seven-oh-eight, to be precise. Janie had a little bit of a problem last night.”
Bruce’s alarm came through the phone from across the Atlantic. “What kind of a problem?”
“Someone broke in here.”
“Oh, my God, is she all right?”
“She’s fine. She managed to hide in the bathroom—the guy never made it that far. She’s exhausted, though—it happened a little after two and the cops were here until after dawn. She’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep, but she’s a little shaken.”
“Well, what did—who—”
“They don’t know yet. Michael Rosow got here right away, but they didn’t find a lot of evidence and he doesn’t seem to think they’re going to catch anyone. And all they took was her computer, anyway. I guess it was pretty quick. It probably felt like hours to her, though.”
Bruce digested that information quietly for a few moments. “You’re sure she’s all right?”
“As all right as she can be under the circumstances. I drove her home from my office this afternoon. I was … uh, just about to leave.”
“Before you go, could you leave her a note for me?”
“Sure.”
“Just tell her I called. No—wait. Tell her I love her too.”
Tom dutifully scribbled the words Bruce called on a pad of paper, then added I love you. He put it on the counter in plain view and left.
11
With the sentries newly charged by the provost to increase their vigilance, it was becoming an increasingly trying task to get through the walls of Paris. One by one, the gates to the city had been closed over the previous few days, and all who attempted to enter were now dependent on the good graces of the rough men who guarded them. But Karle made quiet inquiries and found out which ones were secret sympathizers, and successfully prevailed upon one man to let them through. They left their horses with him, with the promise of payment for their care, and the agreement that he should keep the animals for himself if they did not return within a certain period of time. Either way, the man would profit, and he was only too happy to oblige them.
Kate told him the location of the prearranged meeting place. “But why would he want to meet you there?” Karle asked. “It is an area peopled by Jews.”
And after a moment of confusing uncertainty over how to explain, Kate answered, “Because no one will think to look there.”
He still did not know what they were fleeing. “Now you must tell me who would be looking.”
She simply smiled and said, “I will leave that to Père.”
Her smile, he had found lately, had become an unexpected bit of pleasure. It took him away, albeit briefly, from the bad news and the strife and the misery. I will miss the sound of her voice when she is gone, he realized. And her uncanny cleverness. But he kept these thoughts to himself, for he knew it would be far better for him if she were gone. As his tasks of insurrection became more difficult, her continued presence would become more of a distraction, and no longer the occasional joy it had quietly grown to be. There would be dangers, and he could not take the time to protect a woman from harm when there was a rebellion to be seen to.
A girl, I mean. In either case, a female, and therefore trouble.
But after a period of waiting during which the shadows lengthened considerably, he began to wonder if she would be taken off his hands after all.
“Are you certain this is the correct place?”
“Without a doubt.”
“How long ago were you last here?”
“Many years, but it has not changed much.” She pointed to the yellow wedge-shaped symbol above the fromagerie. “The sign is exactly as it was when we came here before.”
In view of her certainty he chose not to question her further, and remained quiet for a time. But as the day edged toward a close he grew visibly impatient and felt compelled to press his inquiry. “What will happen if he is delayed? We cannot wait here through the night.”
“You need not wait. You have fulfilled your obligation. But give back my coins, please.” She held out her hand.
The dismissal surprised him. “How can you so lightly offend me, after what we have been through together? Did you think I would steal your coins and leave you helpless?”
His anger caught her off-guard. “I … I’m sorry … I meant no disrespect—but I would not be helpless.”
He wondered if it was fear that made her behave with such false bravado. Is she trying to hide it? Perhaps I should be gentler with her. “It is possible that your père did not get through the walls before the gates were closed.”
“It is unlikely that he would allow himself to be delayed as we were. In any case, he would find a way. He is a very clever man.”
“So you have said.”
“It is true. And he has made me a clever maiden.”
“Nevertheless, I shall wait with you to be sure he comes.”
“As you like,” she said.
They did not speak again until the sun had disappeared behind the tallest building on the street.
“I must go to Marcel,” Karle finally said.
“Then go,” she said. And very quietly, she added, “With my thanks for your escort. And your company.” She held out her hand again for the bag of coins.
He did not know what to do—it was growing dark, and she had no accommodations, and she was a young woman alone, and—
—and he did not wish her to be gone just yet.
“I am loath to leave you here,” he said. “It seems an unmanly thing to do, in view of my promise to care for you. Come with me to the provost’s house. He will give us shelter for the night—then we will return here tomorrow. Soon it will be too dark to see your père even if he does arrive. And he would not want you to be alone out here, I am sure of it.”
Behind the firm resolve on her face, he saw a worried maiden who was as undecided as he of what to do next.
“Please,” he said.
“All right,” she finally said, “but I will hold you to your promise. To return tomorrow.”
Relief flooded through him, but he did not allow her to see it. “I will not fail you,” he said solemnly. Then he took her hand and led her toward the river.
“Ah, Dr. Canches,” de Chauliac said as his freshly garbed prisoner limped into the candlelit salle à dîner, “sit down.” He gestured toward a chair across the table from where he himself sat. “You must rest your leg.”
The guards stayed outside the door as the physician hobbled to the chair.
“Have you determined the nature of your injury?” his teacher asked.
“I do not believe that there are any broken bones,” the younger man answered. “It will heal in a few days, at most.”
“Ah, this is very good news. But of course, I shall wish to examine you myself. While you are in my care, I do not wish any harm to befall you. I shall do so after we dine.”
“You may suit yourself, de Chauliac, but you will fi
nd my bones quite intact.”
“I have found the Jews to be a weak-boned lot, I must say. In my time at Montpelier, I observed that among the old, especially, there is much breakage of the limbs.”
“We are not so easily broken as you might think.”
“Ah,” de Chauliac said, “I remember your defiant spirit well, and fondly. You are especially fine company when you are disturbed.” He waved a hand and a servant appeared with a flask. Their goblets were filled with a dark and aromatic liquid. De Chauliac raised his in salute, and said, “I propose a toast, to many scintillating conversations.” He smiled broadly. “And to the return of the Prodigal Son.”
“I have heard this parable of your Christ,” he said, “but I do not understand.”
“Ah, yes,” de Chauliac said. “As you did not understand ‘Maranatha.’ ”
Alejandro squirmed in his chair, which had proven itself to be far less comfortable than it looked at first glance. He toys with me, he thought. And he enjoys it.
“I shall explain,” de Chauliac continued. “The son takes his portion of his father’s wealth and runs off to a faraway land, where he squanders it. When he returns in poverty, the father rejoices and makes him welcome again, forgiving the wayward son his profligate ways.”
His discomfort growing, the younger physician said, “Forgiveness is a fine thing, especially between father and son. But I have not squandered my father’s wealth. Nor have I any sons, so I am not certain what you mean by this tale.”
De Chauliac stared at him through the candle-glow and said, “But we hear from England that you have what one might call a daughter.”
A cold stab of fear shot through him.
De Chauliac saw it on his face, and smiled almost wickedly. “But this story is not about sons or daughters, rather it is about a gift that was not wisely used. You see, you were given a gift in Avignon, by myself, by His Holiness the Pope, and you squandered that gift.” He set down his goblet and nodded to the servant, who brought out a plate of meat and set it on the table between the two men.
De Chauliac sniffed the steam that rose from the offering. “Lovely,” he said. He closed his eyes momentarily and enjoyed the aroma of onions and spices. “But we shall not continue to speak of these things just now. They are too distressing, and will upset our digestion. Such delights as I set before you this evening are hard to come by these days, very hard indeed.” He picked up a knife and cut off a small chunk of meat, which he then stabbed with the tip of the knife and stuck into his mouth. “Please,” he said as he chewed, “eat. Though you look well enough, one could say that you are a bit thin.”
